SUR YAMAN KALYAN

SUR YAMAN KALYAN

CANTO I
1
Thou art Love, thou art Healer
Thou art panacea for all pains;
Within us abide and abound O Sir
Many a foul, malign fever; Deliver us,

O Divine Dealer Of all the ills, these poor sufferers.
2
Thou art Love Thou art Healer
Thou art remedy of all ills;
Thou dost give, thou remove
What are sufferings of sa sufferer;
Medicines only make then better,
Givest thou orders, when to heal.
3
Were HE to throw at me His arrow
Taking pity on my plight;
O I’ld not to a healer go,
But live with wound al through life.
4
Who are so struck by His arrow
They whimper joyously at the sound;
But alone while in court of Love
They wrtithe, wriggle on the ground;
Do they, their own dressings
Healing themselves they’re found;
Go, have a round,
Out from these lovers, one night ye!
5
I can never beloive their word
Who’ld weep and wail for the Love;
Welling up tears in their eyes
They sell His secret to the wor’d;
Who Him, truly remember’d
They neigher blab nor blubber.
CANTO II
1
Thou art not the true healer
Who knows not where but pain find;
So preserve al your prescripts
Bury them in hole, ye purblind;
I reject life of any kind
That’s sans love, and sans Beloved.
2
Ah but, the Healer was in my neighbour-hood
I would not go to Him, request;
Then as it were, motes did infest,
Both my eyes, blinding me.
3
O you cursed healer you simply killed
Know ye not the real pain;
When I ‘ld go to him, shall complain
Sir! Thse quacks are, all without compassion.
4
O do not deal to me your trash,
I only wish that I not be well, nay;

That come HE might someday,
Caring for my condition and cure.
5
Ah thse quacks nearly killed me
And met not me, a real healer;
Hurting me they even further
Tormented my spirits even more.
CANTO III
1
Ay and ah for Him now,
Goes on, for all the time entire;
The liver is burnt in love-passion
The kidneys are sending forks of fire;
Come see me burning for Sire,
Believe you not it, bbut by sying.
2
Making the liver burn in passion
Set HE ablaze what is all within;
By each new breath, a new dart of pain
Sends HE through body blowing in;
O’tis His, a glimpse to win,
Throw I myself, out on the Fire.
3
Go and ask the candle-moths
How do they burn, on fire of love:
Why to light they bring themselves
On the flame their selves shove;
Darts which, them their drove,
Infixed were already in souls.
4
Call yourself a candle-moth!
Seek out then the Secret Fire;
Burning that has burnt up many
Burn down buring that entire;
Not to others this transpire,
Extinguish it, and knowingly.
5
Call yourself a candle-moth
Wince not back seeing blaze;
That you be a blushing groom
Enter ye its glowing gaze;
Ah but in your muddy maze,
Know you won’t, the Beauty’s kiln.
6
Who were moths made a vow,
Gathered on the Beauteous Flame;
Feeling pain flinced not
Flung themselves on Glowing Fame;
Many a one of numerous name,
Lost their necks on Loving Glory.
7
Burn who would their inner ore
And turn it into hard steel;
Those who in this Fire deal,
Know them by their numinous glow.
8
You won’t but stoke embers
And neither go near the Fire;
And what are It’s flying sparks
On body you won’t bear entire;
Yet standing self-admire,
I’m but of burning ones.
9
Burnig me HE, lets me cool
Cooling me HE, burns again
I am thus ho, ever-slain ,
By sparks of the Hammerman.
10
Today come are such smiths
Skilled are in threatment;
Purge shall my inlying taint,
Ad make manifest mattle all.
11
Iron seethes, rust sizzles
Bellows out where furious blow;
Anvils but start where,
Hammers when do come and show;
There’s today a row-de-dow
Of aspirants on Love-Fire
12
In’ave seen them ever glow
Catch up who with the whetstone;
Their arrows do not get undone,
By growing rust, of mouldering time.
CANTO IV
1
One bowl and two drinkers,
In real love this cannot be;
If both were deemed as two diffent
How can they reach single unity;
By their very duality,
They are deprived of the dispensation.
2
One bowl and two drinkers,
The Real Love, this cannot do;
O Poet! Wish but vainly you
Against the one, His hymn-singer.
3
Who turn bitters to bitter sweets
Work te venoms to honey;
Sitting with them thou only,
Drink some cups of HOLY COMMUNION.
4
Go, asperse on the way-farers
The dew of His divine house;
That come to know all about you
And is hailed abroad heavely souse;
That those, who early carouse
Come with their cups at your courtyard.
5
And true drinkers, while ‘ld they come
They ‘ll consume away all your wine;
Their thirst wakening, they’ll whine
"O we’ave drunk this, bring more and more please.
6
Ah, the true drinkers have died
Yet you don’t die O wine-dealer!
How live you, O to what manner?
Without those, the great livers.
7
Ah, but there is the brewing place
Cups, kettles and vessels;
Lose not hope in Lord’s grace
Of coming again of the divine drinkers.
8
Ah, Learnt you not their manner O soul,
How the vintners drew the wine?
How they brewing all night brine
Dried both alembics of eyes.
CANTO V
1
A sufi washed clean
What was leaf of his existence;
It was only thence,
That he was blessed with the Beautific Vision.
2
All world is deluged with "1"
It is eroding the low and high;
And we know not, seeing it nigh,
That Charmer has spread al this illusion.
3
Conned I all, what was there
In the leaf of His union;
O’t was only HE, His communion,
And not a word less than that.
4
Learning few letters, O hapless one!
How sit you on judgement upon Him?
Swell and swagger you in your knowledge
But come not near Him, the UNKNOWN One;
Ask from Arch-angel but none,
The savour of the Sip-Divine.
5
He was the only true lover
And all others me charlatans;
Having drunk deep the Satan’s
Intellect but failed and he fumbled.
6
They read and read, and read
But need not in their hearts bleed;
So increase their sins indeed,
As they turn and turn the pages.
7
As you turn and turn pages
So you learn and learn the sins;
What’ll be done to such fictions,
Where lives not He, the soul of life.
8
Only read ‘A’ fro ‘Allah’
And unread other writs and scripts;
Illuminate you inner spirits,
What many pages will you read, more and more?
9
And why scrap and scrap on papers?
Why you be wasting away your ink?
Go, get to the Runic Link,
Where from all the words were made.
10
Make your body a mosque, heart niche,
And observe not ascetic’s fasts;
And why won’t you worship and worship
All time but, Lord God of all hosts;
And conceive not in all casts
Only HE and HE, in front of you?
CANTO IV
1
O Slayer! Thou hast in thy eyes
So felt and fatal arrows;
That standing there, strikest thou
Exulting in their exact throws;
Ah, what great many woes,
You’ave wrought by Your eyes, upon us.
2
If were HE to put arrow in His bow
Bring your breast before Him, for shield;
Take His blows on your brow
May HEby His weapons wield;
Never stir back I love and yield
Were you to be his true lover.
3
Putting arrow in your bow, my loving Sir!
O do not it at me throw;
You abide in me You know,
So lest it strike You, Yourself.
4
Where His dart had first struck me
There I stand now and wait;
O my Chivalrous Friend may yet,
Strike me an other, out of His mercy.
5
His love is not a frivolent play,
As is played by spoony-mouthed lovers;
It’s what breaks and rends apart
Mind, body, spirit, in their one stay;
Send youneck on its spike away,
That pierced through, and through it be.
CANTO VII
1
Come low come high, His true lovers
Never forsake the word of ‘Allah’
Though sighing for him ‘Ah’
Their breath farsake them, one day.
2
And they’re ot like this
As thou art, whole-some limbed;
They daily to their Friend’s go
At His door blood-tears shed;
And in no oter wa are quieted
But by Him, the Love Himself.
3
To long for him and hang from gallows
Are the words of one community;
To stand upon the wasy waiting
For the both, is but necessary;
They can’t carried out be,
Except but by giving one’s head.
4
But you! Still on your skin
At touch of grass-blade, blood spurts out;
So how’ll you take blows on brow
That HE gies in the love-bout;
So wherefore wish you about,
For Dear Dreaded One, and for His love?
5
Go to now, sit lover! On his lane
Out where thy Beloved be;
Leave not wearied ever window
Where doth but show HE;
Handover HE ‘ld handful of grace,
And you’ll all sated be;
Without Him can’t carry we
So how could HE, but without us?
6
Sit therefore lover! At gate of palace
Where doth reside HE;
Come HE shall one day out ot you
Of His own, inquiring after thee;
And after Hime shall lead ye!
The Beneficient One, for all his boons.
CANTO VIII
1
Who would be having His loving pain
They had the health, as it were;
Sweet to lovers is so ever
Any suffering coming on His path.
2
That which is not done, remais undisclos’d
That done, is not perceived by all;
What is but pure as gold,
The Truth is not pleasant to the people.
3
Whatever HE ordained to you O soul
Perform it, even by giving life;
Say not HE servered by the strife,
Rather HE connected you, by such severance.
4
Go about humble in the world
The anger is great, great sorrow;
From forbearance but flow,
All the comforts, know dear sir!
5
Win meed who, bear and forbear
And lose it ever the haughty ones;
And taste not find-faulty ones
Savour of the silence, that there be.
6
Cavil if he, cavil not back,
Retort not same in the rage;
Anone hurting you hurts himself
So think always in your outrage
Never went taking as his wage,
Anyone for ill-will, ever in his lap.
7
And with those, sitting in wose company
Thy pain if more grow;
Leave them, their company low
Though had you, the gain of thousands.
8
Butwith those, sitting in whose company
Doth this pain decline;
With them, your heart intertwine,
And build thy hut, even nearer them.